


Show Him

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Speaking in Tongues [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gentle Sex, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Patient John, Romantic Fluff, Sensitive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 20:27:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: A lazy morning in bed.





	Show Him

**Author's Note:**

> So as you can see I've found my groove again a little lately. I was worried it was gone for good, or at least the winter, so I'm endlessly grateful it's back in some form. I have to thank hqtwoface for the conversation that lead to this piece - I wanted to write something like this but the gentle tone of the rest of the series was lovely and I didn't want to add a gratuitous sex scene and mess that up. Some of the phrases and ideas came directly from that conversation, so thank you, Muse!
> 
> <3

Mornings were John’s favourite time of day.

Sherlock was soft and vulnerable, warm from sleep and often in a cuddly mood. John had many golden memories of skin sliding across familiar skin, words murmured in ears, hands caressing and gently bringing bodies to life. The world moved slowly, condensed down to touch and taste, to panting breaths and the unique smell of your lover on your skin.

John saw a side of Sherlock he knew was guarded and fragile; the trust he put in John in those moments took John’s breath away. Sherlock rarely lost control, and the act of giving it up, of allowing, nay, _asking_ John to help him teeter on the edge of release was the ultimate act of submission and trust.

John treated Sherlock reverently in those moments, showing him with gentle touch that he was a precious thing, to be cared for and loved. Few people had been as patient with Sherlock as John was; when they had first ventured their relationship into the physical, Sherlock had regularly felt overwhelmed. He was so unused to being touched at all, John could see, let alone cherished. In those moments, John pulled back, using light touches and soft words.

He learned Sherlock responded to the kind of gentle affectionate names he himself liked hearing; phrases such as “you alright, love?” and “hey, sweetheart, you’re okay,” helped Sherlock to anchor himself. John learned early on that Sherlock was sensitive on the inner surface of his wrist; gentle circles, drawn with John’s thumbs as his hands cradled Sherlock’s hands, help to calm him.

It took a long time for them to come to this place, where John could read Sherlock’s distress. He was so used to hiding himself that even accepting that John genuinely wanted to know if he was okay was a stretch; the disbelief in his eyes when John calmly said, “we can stop if you want,” and then proceeded to do just that broke John’s heart just a little. It steeled the determination in John that no matter how long it took, he would show Sherlock that it was him, the whole thing, not just his brain, or the shiny bits he showed the world; the whole deal was what John cared about.

That was why this morning was so remarkable. John, by no means a dominant lover, almost always instigated their sexual activity, having accepted that Sherlock’s lack of self-confidence made it unlikely that he would feel safe enough to offer himself to John. This morning, however, John awoke to Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, his lips ghosting over the back of John’s neck.

John snuggled down, a little groan of satisfaction escaping his own mouth.

“Good morning,” John murmured, squeezing his own arms over Sherlock’s.

He could feel Sherlock’s lips tighten into a smile against his skin. Sherlock did not speak, but he shifted so he could reach the side of John’s throat.

John’s eyes closed as he enjoyed the tender exploration; it usually didn’t last long, and he was determined to remember every moment.

Sherlock’s mouth lost contact, and John felt his breath warm in his ear.

“You love me, John,” Sherlock murmured, and John’s mouth pulled into a smile.

“Yes.”

“You take risks for me.”

“Yes.”

“You show me you love me in bed.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock did not speak, so John opened his eyes, wondering where this was going.

Sherlock was looking at him, an expression in his eyes that John had not seen before. He did not speak, but resumed his slow kissing, and John realised what Sherlock was trying to say – he wanted to show John love as John showed him.

How very Sherlock, John thought, gasping as Sherlock found a sensitive spot.

John gave himself up to the sensations Sherlock was creating. His world had condensed again, the skin and mouths, the stroking and touching and loving.

This time, though, he was on the other side; trusting his partner, knowing the love and respect they held between them was being exhibited with every kiss, every blindly followed press of insistent hands. Sherlock’s attention was absolute, and his ability to read John made him an excellent lover.

As he found yet another sensitive place that John didn’t even know he had, a small part of John marvelled at the care Sherlock was able to communicate with his touch. His fingers were gentle, and John could feel the difference between his left and right hands, the years of violin calluses changing the consistency of his fingertips; the contrasting sensations made for some loud gasps. Even with the rushing of his own blood in his ears, there was another sound that John struggled to place.

Finally he identified it – he could hear Sherlock murmuring to himself, or possibly to John; his head was not that close to John’s own. The indistinct baritone rumble merely added to the sounds already audible – the rustle of sheets, the moans torn from John’s throat, the panting breaths of two bodies with pounding hearts.

Their symphony, John thought to himself, but with a different conductor; the moans were tenor, rather than baritone; the murmurs deeper and richer as Sherlock lavished him with love. The pounding hearts were the same hearts, though, keeping time in an age old crescendo, as John’s cries and his thumping heart reached their peak together, fingers intertwined with Sherlock’s, gripping hard against the wave of sensation.

His body was singing as Sherlock’s attentions gentled, the slide of his long body up the bed to lay with John enough stimulation after such an intense experience.

“I couldn’t hear you," John whispered, when his heart had slowed and he had turned to bury his face in Sherlock’s curls.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Sherlock replied, voice muffled against John’s shoulder.

John frowned. “Who were you talking to?” he asked in confusion.

“Myself.”

Hesitantly, John asked, “What were you saying, love?” For a long moment, he thought Sherlock would not respond.

Finally, though, Sherlock lifted his head and looked John in the eyes, his eyes bright with tears. “Show him, make sure he knows.”

John could hear the unspoken words even as their lips met, the tears finally dropping from Sherlock’s eyes like rain onto John’s face.

_“Show him you love him. Make sure he knows how much you love him.”_


End file.
